InBetween the Lines
by JeanTre16
Summary: This is my short, four chapter take on what happens in the episode "Da Vinci's Notebook" before Jacqueline visits Mireille as Jacques' fiancée.
1. Chapter 1

**In-between the lines**

By JeanTre16

Chapter One

Women Trouble

Jacqueline sat, with head down, hands on her forehead, at the Musketeer dinning room table. Not eating, but sitting facing outward from her plate, she was deep in contemplation over her growing issue with Mireille, the laundry maid, who had developed an attachment to Jacques Leponte—her counter self.

It had all started when d'Artagnan unscrupulously solicited the woman's attention in the first place, and then couldn't seem to shake her off his tail after that. In his own words, "I had coffee with her one time and she acts like we're engaged." So he had lied to her. He told her he was going off on a mission, far away.

The problem with that was that he hadn't gone anywhere. He had just been avoiding her. Inevitably, that fateful day at the laundry house, all four of them ran into her. And that's where Jacqueline's problems began. Feeling sorry for the rudeness her comrade had shown toward the woman, Jacqueline, as Jacques Leponte, intervened to soften the girl's letdown.

Now, she had the clinging wash-maid all but engaged to Leponte. It had gotten way out of hand. Jacqueline had to get rid of her. But how? Sitting there, she pondered over her predicament.

She had refused to lie like d'Artagnan had to Mireille. But after seeing the annoying persistence of the poor misled girl, she began to wonder if there was any other option. She hated to admit to her flippant comrade that perhaps his actions had been acceptable, given the situation.

"Anything I can help with?" a voice startled the pondering Musketeer.

Looking up, Jacqueline saw d'Artagnan leaning over her in question. Rubbing her face, she replied, "No. I'm just thinking."

"Thinking about what?"

"That's none of your business."

Changing the subject, he teasingly asked, "So, it's your day off. Where are you and Mireille off to today?"

Making a disgusted face at the man, she retorted, "Very funny." Shaking her head in annoyance, she swung her legs around to the inside of the table. "If anything, I'll be avoiding her today," she answered. Taking a fruit from the bowl in the center, she bit into it for something to do other than face her jeering tormenter.

D'Artagnan's face lit up. "Ah. So you're getting tired of all her attention, are you?" He smiled and took a seat next to her at the table. "What are you going to do about it?"

Swallowing her mouthful, she looked at him with a frown. "What do you mean, what am I going to do about it? Nothing. I'm just going to avoid her that's all. She'll eventually get tired of chasing me down and leave me alone."

Seeming to enjoy her affliction, he taunted, "And what happens if she doesn't? Are you going to marry her?"

Appalled, she faced him. "D'Artagnan, you're sick."

Amusedly, he backed off, holding his hands up in defense and inserted, "I'm not suggesting anything. I'm just following our friendly wash-maid's logical train of thought."

"Well, you can just be quiet and leave me alone. I can handle it."

"I can see that." He observantly eyed her. "You're handling it extremely well. She's been around the garrison every day for…how long has it been?" he teased.

Her only response was a look of oppression at the thought. In truth, there had been laundry deliveries at least once a day for the past week straight. And that didn't include all the times she had just shown up with her picnic basket and homemade meals. More than the female Musketeer's immediate comrades were beginning to notice. And there was one thing Jacqueline did not want to do—draw attention to herself.

D'Artagnan looked around the lounge to make sure they were alone. "Want some advice?"

With her mouth full, she could only offer him a dirty look in reply.

He leaned in to whisper, "Seriously, I've been thinking about how you can get Mireille out of your hair." His eyes lent themselves to admire her hair along with his comment.

Finished eating, she glanced at him from the side of her eyes and licked the juice off her fingers. With sarcasm, she asked "How? How would Paris' noble d'Artagnan tell a woman he's done with her?"

Offended by her accusation, he backed off with a straight face. "Are you suggesting that I cold-heartedly use women, and then willfully subject them to rejection afterward?"

"Skip it, d'Artagnan. Do you have advice or not?" she wasn't in the mood to delve into his womanizing behavior just then.

Considering her receptiveness for a moment, he began, "All right. You need a fiancée."

"A fiancé?" she echoed in shock.

"A fiancée," he confirmed.

Jacqueline rose from the bench to be followed by her advisor. "You are out of your mind, d'Artagnan."

"What do you mean? It's a great idea. If Mireille thought Jacques Leponte was already spoken for, she'd be obligated to leave you alone. I know it would work." He pleaded his case as he followed her down the hallway.

"Ah. So you're saying that Leponte would have to find a woman willing lie to Mireille that they are engaged." Arriving at her room, she turned on her pursuer to offer one last question. "Supposing it would even work, where would I find this fiancée to lie for me?"

Smiling at her, he inferred, "I'm glad you asked. I've already given that some thought."

Paused, with her hand on her doorknob, she gave him a look of consideration.

Seeing that he held her interest, with a playful flicker of his brow, he proceeded. "Do you want to hear it?"


	2. Chapter 2

**In-between the lines**

By JeanTre16

Chapter Two

Leponte's Type

Thinking she probably shouldn't have, Jacqueline let him into her room. "All right. Who is this woman you know that would be willing to do this for me?"

D'Artagnan pulled her desk chair to the middle of the room and straddled it backwards, facing her as she sat on her bed. Resting his folded arms on the raised chair back, he began. "You."

"Me?" Jacqueline made a face.

"You," d'Artagnan continued. "You'd make the perfect fiancée for Jacques Leponte."

Rising from her seated position, she made her way to the door. "That's it. Thank you very much for your brilliant suggestion. But, I think we're done here."

"Wait—" and he reached his hand out to grab her arm as she passed by and whispered her name "—Jacqueline. Why not?"

At his use of her name and grip on her arm, she turned to face him with her dissuading argument. "Have you forgotten that I have wanted posters up with my picture on it? I can't just go walking about in Paris as myself." Shaking her arm free of his grasp, her face wore the pain in the reality of her own statement. She wanted to be alone; she wanted d'Artagnan to go.

His gaze turned compassionate as he apologized, "I'm sorry, Jacqueline. I didn't mean to raise painful issues." He knew how much those posters ate at her.

Shaking her head in frustration, she dismissed the subject. "Never mind, d'Artagnan. I appreciate you trying to help, but I'll figure it out myself." Sighing, she resumed her path to the door to let him out.

"But wait! I never intended for you to be you."

Stopping in her tracks she raised her hands in frustration. "D'Artagnan, would you please stop! You're making no sense." Then giving him a quizzical look, she asked, "And what do you mean by, I don't have to be me?"

"You, as yourself, wasn't what I had in mind in the first place. No offense, but I don't really see you as Leponte's type of woman." He apparently had given it some thought, but at the same time, not without adding his own idiosyncrasies to the analogy.

"I'm not Leponte's type of woman?" She raised her brow in surprise. How could he possibly conclude she was not suitable for herself? "And whose type am I?" She wondered what kind of woman this fickle man thought she was.

Making concession for her inquiry, he illustrated. "Well, you're too forward, for one. Jacques needs a gentler woman…a traditional woman…" Seeing the perturbed look on Jacqueline's face, he stopped his description.

"Forward? You think I'm forward?" Her arms were crossed.

"Well…yes," he said, looking like he had nothing to defend himself for. "There's no doubt you're a charmer—in a good dress—but you are far too bold, too front-of-the-line and too futuristic in your thinking for Leponte. You're much more suitable for a man who isn't intimidated by your beauty and brawn."

At this, Jacqueline's jaw dropped, shocked at his contradictory portrayal of her character—simultaneously using feminine and masculine descriptors.

Since their recent exchange with Charles II, d'Artagnan believed he had learned some things about Jacqueline. Looking off in his assessment, and unaware of her response, he continued. "You need someone who can stand up to your competitiveness; Jacques is too gentle." Engrossed in his relating of her traits, he reflectively expounded. "Leponte's fiancée is rule bound; Jacqueline is liberating. Leponte's woman is befitting of a genteel Musketeer's wife; Jacqueline is invigorating, perfect for a roguish man."

"Wait a minute, Monsieur d'Artagnan," Jacqueline protested, while trying to keep her voice down. Forgetting her role of a male Musketeer and taking on the defense of her feminine self, she retorted, "I will not have you refer to me as such. I may have taken on the personification of a soldier in a garrison full of men, but I assure you, I am a proper woman." Listening to herself explain her situation, she was shocked at just how contradictory her own words sounded. In short, her defense only confirmed his summary of her.

All d'Artagnan could do was smile at her faltering. Lifting his brow, he delivered, "I never said there was anything improper about you, Jacqueline." He held her gaze for a moment, with a grin on his face. Unfolding his arms and slapping his hands on the back of the chair, he pronounced, "Now, all we have to do is find an outward disguise for you that would fit Jacques Leponte's type of woman."

Not knowing quite how to take his insight on her personality and equally afraid to ask what he thought Jacques Leponte's type of fiancée should look like, Jacqueline flinched and gave him a blank look.

Taking matters into his own hands, in her silence, d'Artagnan enthusiastically suggested, "I know, let's go shopping!"


	3. Chapter 3

**In-between the lines**

By JeanTre16

Chapter Three

Packaging the Goods

"I don't know how I let you talk me into this." Jacqueline exasperated as d'Artagnan and she walked among the shops of Paris.

"You don't have to go through with this." Her lively companion rattled her. "If you'd rather spend your afternoon with Mireille, just let me know and we can head back to the garrison."

"No." She rolled her eyes at the suggestion. "Let's get this over with."

"All right, then," he said, giving her an appropriate male-to-male thump on the back. "First, let's start with your dress. Shall we?" Beaming with a happy grin, he gestured her in the direction of the dressmaker's shop.

Jacqueline loathed it when he treated her like a man, while teasing her as a female. Besides that, she thought he was showing a little too much enthusiasm at her misadventure. After all, it was his fault in the first place that this was even happening, she surmised. Begrudgingly, she bit her tongue and followed.

Coming up next to where her comrade stood, the woman in the façade of a man took in the view of the dress-shop window. Her eyes scanned the options and came to rest upon a lovely blue dress.

She was about to say something when d'Artagnan interjected, "Red. Definitely the red one." He never noticed her giving him a bewildered look because he grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into the shop.

Being greeted by the familiar dressmaker's daughter, d'Artagnan dipped his head. "Mademoiselle," he said, and kissed her hand with civility.

Unnoticed by either the woman or the man, Jacqueline rolled her eyes and shook her head at her comrade's smoothness.

The young dressmaker blushed. "D'Artagnan, isn't it?" she asked.

"You have a good memory, Mademoiselle. It's been some time since I've been this way." He pleasantly smiled.

"Well, yes," the young seamstress shyly replied. Then, noticing his quiet companion, she politely curtsied, "Monsieur—" she laughed lightly in embarrassment and looked back at d'Artagnan "—I'm afraid I can't quite recall your friend's name."

"Leponte." Jacqueline spoke up candidly for herself. She had seen enough of her comrade's interplay with the young woman and wanted very much to get on with the business they had come for. "Actually, we're here today to buy that blue dress for my sister." With a pretend, gentlemanly smile, Jacques pointed to the bust in the window.

D'Artagnan frowned and interjected his correction, "You mean the red dress…for your sister." He ended his statement by glaring at Jacqueline to overrule her. Then turning to the dressmaker's daughter, he asked, "Don't you think the red dress would make a more lasting impression than the blue one?"

"Monsieur d'Artagnan..." The dressmaker paused, wondering how to please both of her disagreeing customers and still make the sale. "The blue dress is lovely—" she smiled warmly toward Jacques, who grinned at her opposing companion "—yet, if your sister desires to make a lasting impression, I'm afraid I'd have to agree with d'Artagnan. Definitely the red one."

Now it was the man's turn to gloat and his companion's turn to pout. Jacqueline looked at both sets of eyes resting on her and caved in. "All right, then we'll take the red one," she consented, thinking it really didn't matter anyway. There were no real plans for the dress other than ridding herself of the overbearing wash maid.

D'Artagnan quickly produced his money pouch and nobly offered to pay. "The honor is mine. I'll take care of this." And while Jacqueline steamed in the awkwardness of the moment, her male friend paid for the dress.

With the brilliant red gown packaged up, the two Musketeers proceeded toward their next acquisition—a wig. Both agreed that Jacqueline's own, natural hair would be too dangerous to don along with any dress in public. Arriving at the wig maker's store, the two, once again, scanned their choices through the window.

"How about the red one?" d'Artagnan said, turning to Jacqueline with his grin and flickering brows.

She shook her head, yet again, at his over enthusiasm in helping her create a disguise. In her opinion, he was enjoying this way too much. Leaving him standing outside the shop, she quickly went in before he could take charge of this shop owner like he had the dressmaker. With great purpose, Jacques Leponte approached the wig maker and asked to have the blond wig in the window boxed up for him.

Walking in on the tail end of the transaction, d'Artagnan's only response was to appear speechless and say, "Well, blond is a nice color, although it's not my favorite."

Jacqueline didn't want to ask what his favorite hair color was. This was not for his benefit anyhow. She quickly paid for the wig, thanked the vendor and left the shop.

Running after her to keep up, d'Artagnan commented, "Is there anything else a woman would need that we could pick up. This is actually quite fun."

To that, Jacqueline turned to him and shoved the wig box into his one free hand—he already had the dress package under the other arm—and left him standing there with a 'what did I say' look on his face.


	4. Chapter 4

**In-between the lines**

By JeanTre16

Chapter Four

Delivery

Early the next morning d'Artagnan knocked softly on her door and whispered, "Jacques are you up?"

Opening the door just enough for him to see that her transformation was already underway, she stepped back to let him in.

He saw that she already had the red gown on. It fit her quite well. D'Artagnan could do nothing but respond with a delighted smile at the sight of her wearing the dress that he had picked out for her. He relished the sight and surmised it would definitely leave a lasting impression.

"Stop drooling and help me with this pathetic wig," she ordered.

Taking note that she acknowledged his looks of approval, he brushed off her sharp comment to receive the handful of hair she held out to him. He smiled lightly, and pressed a little further. "I never did tell you what my favorite color hair was. Aren't you curious?" he asked, happily surveying her appearance as she sat in a chair before her full-length mirror.

Glancing up at him, she sarcastically said, "Let me guess, red, like this dress you picked out."

"No." He paused as he stood beside her and placed the wig down in her lap. "What makes you think that?" he asked softly as he took her hair in his hands to help her tie it back. But absentmindedly, he began to run his fingers through it instead. Since their run in with the exiled king of England, a stimulating side of his female comrade that d'Artagnan had not seen before had surfaced. And it was beginning to have an effect on him.

Jacqueline fumbled for words, "I, uh…" But she could find no words at the moment. She was much too distracted by his gentle combing of her hair with his hands. It felt nice and she felt herself flush. Then suddenly, realizing what was happening, she became nervous and wanted to run.

Watching her affected expression in the mirror, he added, "I'm more of a brunette kind of man."

She turned her head to the side and shyly took hold of his hand to push it away from her hair. "D'Artagnan, don't…" she whispered. Normally, she would have snapped at him for such behavior, had it not been for the caring side of her male comrade she had seen surface during her recent infatuation with Charles II.

Coming back to his presence of mind, he shook off the allurement of the moment and replied, "Sorry…I'm sorry." He stood back and tucked his hands under his arms, allowing her to pull her own hair back. When she had secured the wavy soft strands, he trusted his hands to leave their confinement and helped her place the blond wig over her head.

With the wig in place, she stood up and grabbed the gaudy feather fan she had purchased on a whim for the occasion. Taking one last look in the mirror, she straightened her bright gold necklace and nodded in self-approval. "Well, this is it. Here I go. Pray that this works," Jacqueline said in an up-beat tone and walked toward the door.

Calmly perceiving that her nerves were frayed in trying to be someone that she was not, he took it upon himself to help her think clearly. "Wait—" d'Artagnan stopped her "—aren't you forgetting something?"

Furrowing her brow, she stopped and considered. "No. I don't think I'm forgetting anything," she answered, and turned to give him a quizzical look.

D'Artagnan pulled a letter from his vest and held it out to her.

"What's this?" she asked.

"Your letter," he answered, as if she should have known better to even ask.

"Letter?" she inquired. "Why do I need a letter?"

Taking in a deep breath, he went over to her desk and pulled out a sheet of fresh parchment and set it out. "Obviously, _Leponte_—" he directed his mocking at her alter ego "—knows little about proposing to a woman." Smirking, he continued, "Come here and sit down. Let me instruct you." As he spoke, he returned to where Jacqueline stood and handed her his letter. Having done so, he went to retrieve the chair from in front of the mirror and place it by the desk.

Aghast at his inference of educating her counter self in making a proposal, the clueless woman followed his lead and sat down before the blank sheet of paper. "Now what?" she asked, smartly.

"Open it," he instructed in dumbfounded awe at her lack of grasping the obvious. He took a seat halfway on the edge of her desk—one leg on and dangling, and one leg off with his foot on the floor. "Open the letter you have in your hand and read it." He gestured indifferently at the letter she held, and then eagerly watched for her to open it out of the corner of his eyes.

Jacqueline shook her head with uncertainty and blinked as she un-creased the tri-folded letter to read it aloud. Holding it up, she smugly began, "To my dearest—" there was no name inserted. "Your unchallenged, highly esteemed character and breathtaking beauty have captivated my soul to its core…" Suddenly realizing that it was a serious betrothal letter she was reading, she paused, her affronted attitude turning to one of interest toward its author. Now _there_ was a side to this fickle man she hadn't anticipated, she thought.

She read on, silently for a moment, and couldn't help finishing in a heightened voice of wonderment. "I offer all that is mine to you, including the privileges bequeathed to me by my heritage, unrestrained. I ask nothing in return but the grace of your acceptance. Humbly yours, with the sincerest of heart—" and once again there was no name. She looked up from the letter to d'Artagnan, and said, "That's pouring it on thick, don't you think? I mean, for Leponte." Noticing his jaw drop at her insinuation, she questioned, "Did you write that? Or did you have Ramon write it?"

"No, I didn't have Ramon write it," he answered, deeply annoyed that she would think that. "And do you think I'm that incapable of writing a heartfelt letter?" He crossed his arms.

"I didn't say that," Jacqueline defended herself, wondering where his defensiveness came from. She had only been teasing him.

"A true gentleman always accompanies his engagement with a letter. Leponte is a gentleman, is he not?" he asked, abrasively. Then, with the exiled man in mind, he defensively added, "Verbal commitments are cheap and can conveniently be broken later."

Jacqueline sat up straight and looked at d'Artagnan. She understood his criticism to be aimed at Charles II. There was no question that he had suffered in the dungeons for the actions of the man she had allowed herself to be affected by. She couldn't blame her comrade for disliking the man, but it sounded like his objections ran deeper than mere distaste—he was challenging the man's character. Was this the real issue behind his response to her criticism? She wondered.

In a difficult moment of dealing with his inner emotions while keeping his feelings to himself, d'Artagnan pinched his brow. He had promised to watch over Jacqueline, and in retrospect, he felt he had nearly made a mistake in that regard. He vowed he would not let it happen again. She had suffered enough at the hands of manipulative men. Thus he felt a growing responsibility to take more interest in making her life a little easier. And presently, that meant helping her get rid of Mireille.

With the focus of shaking Mireille on his mind, he redirected her attention. "Look, forget what I just said. All you have to do now is copy that over in your own…that is Jacques' own handwriting, and you're good. Show that to Mireille, and you're done with her." He lifted the quill from her pen rest and handed it to her.

Taking the pen, she dipped it into the ink and began to transfer his words, line for line, over onto the fresh sheet of paper. "Who'd you write that for? Was there someone special?" she asked, making cautious conversation, while not wanting to look him in the eye.

"I knew you needed a letter so I wrote it last night," he answered without any more explanation. Suddenly he had grown awkwardly quiet, considering that perhaps he had opened his heart to a little too much vulnerability. He couldn't take it back, but he could stop more from being exposed. Despite his strong feelings of attraction for her, he still was uncertain what to do about it.

After copying the letter over into 'Jacques'' handwriting, she blew on it to dry the ink before folding it.

"Do you mind?" D'Artagnan, still standing beside her, held out his hand and pointed to the original letter he had written. He determined that if he had his letter back, he would in some likeness have his heart back.

Noticing his focus on reclaiming his letter, she picked it up off the table, held it out to him, and then quickly pulled it back out of his reach. Enjoying the upper hand she held over him in possessing his coveted letter, she smiled and teased, "Are you going to save it for someone?"

Coolly looking down at her sitting in her gorgeous red dress, he leaned over to snatch his letter from her grasp and tauntingly answered. "You'll have to wait and see."

As she rose from her chair, she paused and shared one last face-to-face, close-up glance with d'Artagnan. There was more going on between the lines than either was willing or ready to admit to. Blushing at the playful twinkling in his eyes, she brushed by his stationary stance. Then, walking out the door, she went to deliver herself from the bondage of Mireille, the wash maid.


End file.
